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ADELAIDE GAIL FROST. 





BY WAYSIDES 
IN INDIA 


y 

ADELAIDE GAIL FROST 

n 



^WRITTEN FOR THE CHRISTIAN 
WOMAN'S BOARD OF MISSIONS^IN 
MEMORY OF HATTIE L. JUDSON 
«>eWHO GAVE HER LIFE FOR IN¬ 
DIA'S STARVING VILLAGE PEOPLE 






THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Tvwo Goww Reosivcd 

OCT. 16 1902 

CnovTNOWT ENTITY 

(M &- I°i0 *v 

CLASS SCXXo. No. 

U-- h *b 

COPY 3. 




Copyrighted 1902 

BY THE 

Christian Woman’s Board of Missions 
Indianapolis, Ind. 


















































































































































































































































































































OO^rpHE restless millions wait 

11 That Light, whose dawning maketh all things new; 
Christ also waits, but men are slow and late, 

Have we done what we could? Have I? Have you? 

A cloud of witnesses above encompass us, 

We love to think of all they see and know; 

But what of this great multitude in peril, 

Who sadly wait below? 

Oh, let this thrilling vision daily move us 
To earnest prayers and deeds before unknown, 

That souls redeemed from many lands may join us. 

When Christ brings Home His own.” 


IBy Waysides 

in India. 


Part I. 



REAR, CREAK, CREAK, went the bul¬ 
lock-cart as it rolled slowly over the 
military road between two large stations 
in Hindustan. “I do not understand w^hy 
we are riding in this vehicle over such a 
beautifully smooth road,” said a bright¬ 
faced young woman who was rather restlessly chang¬ 
ing her position on the straw in the bottom of the 
cart. 

“But you just wait until we get onto the country 
road,” her companion replied. “You see, my dear, 
that this road has been built pakka (solid) so that 
should there be a necessity of marching soldiers rap¬ 
idly from one military station to the other, or to 
some point where there was mutiny or trouble, it 
could be done. The roads leading off from this to the 
villages are quite different, as you will see.” 

The bright morning sunshine filtered through the 
tamarind trees, whose shadows fell in lace-like pat- 




6 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


terns on the yellow road. The tamarind with its fern 
frond leaves was mingled with the shining foliage of 
the pipal tree, sacred to so many millions of people. 
Ahead of them were other carts and many people 
walking, for it was bazaar day in the town of Jalal- 
pur, toward which the village folk were tending. The 
farmers were taking their produce to market, the 
weavers their cloth, the potter and basket maker their 
wares, and these were to be bartered and sold in the 
street or by the roadside. The despised chamar, or 
worker in leather, was passed. He carried some 
roughly-made sandals and a bundle of ill-smelling 
hides. 

“Get out, low-born eater of flesh!” said a tall young 
Hindu with the books of a writer under his arm. The 
chamar shrank awkwardly aside. He was an out-caste 
and might kill and eat, while the high-caste man 
might not do this, lest he should eat his ances¬ 
tors. To this high caste Hindu there was always 
the possibility present that the souls of his 
great, great grandparents might have taken up 
their separate abodes in the cow or the ugly buf¬ 
falo, nibbling the short dry grass by the road¬ 
side. The young man looked with disgust on the bur¬ 
den of the chamar, who passed on muttering. An old 
man followed the chamar. He wore no more clothes 
than the worker in leather; he looked no cleaner. 
About his neck were strings of large wooden beads. 
In his hand was the brass lota, or drinking vessel, for 
he w r ould not drink from the cup of him of lower 
caste. His head was bent and he was murmuring over 
and over again on his beads, “Ram, Ram, Ram!” 

“Namaskar,” saluted the young Hindu writer, 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


7 


bowing low before him and touching his feet with his 
hands. 

The Brahmin paused, for this scantily draped in¬ 
dividual was a holy man of the highest caste. He 
said: “I am on my way to the bazaar in Jalalpur. I 
have visited many holy places and bathed in Gunga 
Ji (Ganges) many times, but I have heard that in 
Jalalpur there is a wonderful light burning in the 
temple of Maniyadev and I am traveling thither to 
see it.” 

“Yes, master, it never goes out. That was a true 
word, for there it burns day and night.” 

Two women, bearing baskets on their heads filled 
with grains, went aside lest their shadows should fall 
upon and offend the Brahmin guru. They were draped 
in coarse dark-red cloths partially drawn over their 
faces. On their arms were many glass bracelets, and 
heavy anklets were clasped above their feet. It made 
one shudder lest they be bruised by these weighty 
ornaments. Their bright eyes were watching the cart 
with its load of strange, kindly-looking foreign wom¬ 
en, as they walked along behind, easily balancing 
the baskets upon their heads. A tall man in a yellow 
and red gingham coat, with shining black hair sur¬ 
mounted by a jaunty cap, walked along with an urban 
air. Behind him a coolie bore a huge pack of cloth, 
for this tall man was a cloth merchant from Ramna- 
gar on his way to the bazaar in Jalalpur. As the cart 
passed he dropped his yard-stick to say with low bow, 
“Salaam, Mem Sahil), Salaam!” A potter resented the 
merchant’s salaam, which almost knocked some earth¬ 
en jars from his hands. Behind the potter trotted his 
wife, with three dusky jars, one upon the other, bal- 



8 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


anced upon her head. There was many a woman 
bearing more than her share of the burden, walking 
obediently behind her lord and master, never by his 
side. From one basket borne aloft, a little brown 
baby raised its head showing sleepy brown eyes, as it 
clung to the sides of the basket. There were rude 
bales of cotton on other heads and carts were passed 
full of grain bags. A child had spilled a basket of 
vegetables in the road and was being upbraided in 
vile language by a man standing near. Another boy 
with large white radishes in his basket was laughing 
at the scene. 

The road turned off to the village whither the mis¬ 
sionaries were bound, and became very rough. In 
the long rainy season great ruts had been cut by the 
wide wheels of rude, native carts. These were not as 
yet powdered to dust. The driver of the cart was 
obliged to strike off in different directions across the 
fields to avoid the worst places. It was a very slow 
and tiring, but comparatively safe mode of locomo¬ 
tion. The young missionary wondered if that clump 
of trees rising so suddenly out of the brown fields em¬ 
bowered the village. There was a gleam of white 
there, suggesting a comfortable farm house. “Yes, 
the mud huts of the villages nestle there, but the 
white is the temple, and no resting place for weary 
tillers of the soil.” ’Twas thus an older missionary 
answered her questionings. 

“See that man just scratching the surface of the 
earth with his plow,” said the irrepressible new mis¬ 
sionary as they neared a man with an Indian plow 
made of sticks with a small iron point. 

Ahead of them lay the village of Bhauli, with its 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


9 


two hundred mud and grass huts surrounding the 
slightly more precise ones built about the court of 
the headman. A little herd of brown children flocked 
under the trees on the edge of the village, and with 
large, dark eyes watched the approach of the Mem 
Sahibs. 

“Salaam, Salaam!” chorused the boys, for they 
remembered the kind faces that had smiled on 
them in the town. The three missionaries, with some 
difficulty, extricated themselves from the cart and 
walked up the narrow roadway into the village and 
almost straight into the headman’s court. Several 
women were seated about in the sunshine. One was 
stirring something in a large kettle over a little out¬ 
door fireplace. Two young women were grinding at 
the mill, and another was husking rice with a long 
wooden pestle. A little girl was busily grinding the 
spices for the curry on a large stone with a smaller 
stone used for pounding. An old woman was cutting 
up vegetables with a short sickle. A little baby who 
had been bathed and oiled paraded his shining little 
brown body in the sunlight, being freely and airily 
attired in a string of beads and silvered anklets. The 
old woman rose and said, “Salaam.” The younger 
women drew their draperies shyly over their faces, 
for modesty in India means concealing the face. The 
more experienced visitor knew this old woman was 
the mother of sons and these were the daughters-in- 
law over whom she might hold ( sway, since her own 
years of youthful servitude had ended. Her face was 
not unkindly, but marks were there that only the ex¬ 
pectation of blankness coming on apace can leave in 
the faces of the old. She gave an order to two of the 



10 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


young women, who hurried into one of the houses 
about the court, their anklets jingling merrily. They 
soon reappeared with a small cot bare of bedding and 
set it in the court as a seat for the Mem Sahibs. These 
women had no chairs, but sat on the ground or on 
mats; and yet, with true courtesy, knowing that the 
habits of the foreign people w r ere different, they 
brought out the cot as a seat. Though rudely made, 
with ropes woven across it, the missionaries took 
their seats upon it with a grateful acknowledgment. 
The elder lady asked them concerning the welfare of 
the family. The mother began to shake her head and 
answer that one of her sons had gone on a long pil¬ 
grimage to Jagannath, on the far east coast of India, 
and they had not heard from him for many weeks. 
Another pilgrim passing through had seen him by the 
way at Kashi (Benares). There he had spent all he 
had taken with him in the prescribed offering to the 
Brahmins, and was planning to beg his way to Jagan¬ 
nath, hoping to reach there for the great festival 
when the car was drawn forth. 

“I have no rest thinking of him,” said the old 
mother. “Who knows what has happened to him or 
whether with all his pilgrimages and fastings and 
performings of puny a (acts of merit) he yet lives or 
no? Ah, if he dies may it be by the Ganges or within 
the sacred enclosure of Jagannath, where the gods 
dwell!” 

A woman whose cloth was drawn over her face be¬ 
gan to wail. She was the son's wife, perhaps his 
widow. 

There was an opportunity for the missionaries to 
speak of God’s Son, who made the pilgrimage from 




IN THE HEADMAN’S COURTYARD. 









. 









































































































I 















■ 


































BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


11 


Heaven to earth to bring gifts to men, and they tried 
to give a message of hope that would reach even this 
case. 

“It is a true word you are speaking to us,” said 
the old woman, “it seems good to me. Ask your God 
to bring him back.” 

“He is our Father, and your Father, too. You can 
ask Him yourself and say, ‘For Jesus’ sake.’ ” 

“Who is Jesus?” she asked, and so the conversa¬ 
tion went on. They brought food soon, bread and 
sweetmeats and curds, and offered it to the ladies. 
Bits of these were accepted, for the women had taken 
trouble in preparing them. The missionaries were 
rising to go when an old woman clothed in a single 
dingy w r hite drapery walked in without ceremony. 
She was very light in color and her skin was creased 
with a thousand wrinkles. She carried in her hands 
a gourd drinking vessel, a long string of wooden 
beads, a pair of tongs, and a small roll. She was 
muttering to herself with a strange look in her bril¬ 
liant, deep-set eyes. The native women at once pros¬ 
trated themselves, for the newcomer had the appear¬ 
ance of a priestess. She, however, curiously ap¬ 
proached the Mem Sahibs. 

“Ram, Ram," she said, as such people often say the 
name of that god in greeting, instead of the usual 
“Salaam." 

“Salaam," they answered; “where are you from?” 

“Gunga Ji," (the Ganges) she said, “and I have 
here,” patting her roll, “leaves from the temple under 
the ground at Allahabad, leaves which grew in dark¬ 
ness, but will bring health to the sick. I have here 
charms of wonderful power which I can impart to 



12 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


you, even to you who have crossed the black water. 
I can help you to the desire of your heart.” 

“And are you satisfied?” asked the elder mission¬ 
ary. The women of the household drew near to hear 
the reply. Something in the tone made the old pil¬ 
grim pause in her recital. “Have you lost your bur¬ 
den?” 

“Who are you, that you ask me these questions?” 
the pilgrim answered in most respectful form. “I 
am returning from Ganga Ji.” 

“Is your heart at rest?” again questioned the mis¬ 
sionary. 

A look of sadness crept over the old face as she 
said: “I lost everything I had. The Queen of Crat- 
rapur gave me money and a new cloth, and now this 
is all I have. I made the offerings at Kashi, and then 
I went on to Jagannath. There the priests walked 
over my body as they did over that of other pilgrims 
on their way to the temple. I suffered much and I 
got nothing—nothing at all!” 

The women of the native household said, “Alas, 
alas!” 

“And my son!” exclaimed the mother of the house¬ 
hold, “did you meet my son, who made a pilgrimage 
there?” 

“There were thousands of people going there. I 
do not know your son. Plenty were thin so their 
bones showed, plenty were dying of fever, plenty were 
in rags. I did not know them.” 

“ Hai! Hair wailed the young wife, “he is dead!” 

“Hush, woman, they were not all dead,” answered 
the pilgrim. 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


13 


“Where are you going now?” asked one of the 
missionaries, her eyes full of tears. 

“I am going back to the Queen’s palace. I was 
her teacher. I taught her all I knew from the Vedas, 
but I now have some new spells to teach her. I grew 
tired there before, for the maids, oh, the maids, they 
tossed their heads,” and the old pilgrim imitated them 
very perfectly. “They were jealous and they brought 
the laugh upon me whenever possible. They said, 
‘Who is this woman that has stepped in?’ They cared 
for nothing but rings, and bracelets, and jewelry. I 
wear only this,” and she showed the iron band on her 
arm, the badge of widowhood. 

“I thought there was a king of Chatrapur,” said 
one of the missionaries. 

“Oh, there was, but he is a holy man who spends 
all his time going from one shrine to another. He 
will try to find amid the Himalayas the sacred spot 
where Gunga begins to flow, a drop from Heaven. He 
has been gone many years giving himself to the wor¬ 
ship of the gods. The queen is very anxious lest his 
brother seize the throne and wrest it from her eldest 
son, for whom she is trying to hold it. The king has 
been gone so long that the people are beginning to 
complain, for there is no one to whom to appeal, and 
they wish to make his brother king. The queen told 
me to go to Calcutta and gain audience of the great 
lady who reigns—the Viceroy’s wife—and ask her to 
speak to His Excellency about this matter of saving 
the throne for the king’s son. But I went to Jagan- 
nath to pray instead. Who knows if I should have 
gained the white queen’s ear?” 



14 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


“And what are you taking back to your mistress?” 
asked the eldest missionary. 

“This,” said she, and she pulled from her bundle 
a small idol. “This is a Sita. She will cause Ram to 
bless the Queen of Chatrapur! Ram will overcome 
the uncle even as he did Raivan, the king of rakshas 
(demons) in Ceylon!” 

“What will you do if the queen is not pleased that 
you disobey her command?” 

“I will tell her the white queen sent me to Sita be¬ 
cause the heart of the King of Chatrapur has been 
stolen by the gods, and not by men, and only gods can 
fight against the gods. Did not Ram overcome even 
gods? Sita will influence Ram to fight against the 
deities that are driving the king mad, while the white 
queen would only influence the Viceroy, who worships 
not the gods of Hindustan.” 

“There is hope for you, but not in a poor queen 
who died centuries ago. The heaven-dwelling Father 
hears the prayers of the distressed. He is displeased 
with idolatry, but He has shown His love to men in 
that He sent His Son to earth to tell the people how 
they can find Him. The poor king is searching after 
God, but our God dwells not in stone or a house made 
with hands.” 

The old pilgrim stopped her with an eager excla¬ 
mation. “That is a new story; I like it. I found not 
my heart’s rest even in the sacred enclosure of Jagan- 
nath!” 

“Hai! Hair cried the mother. 

“Don’t be sad. There is hope, there is a Mediator, 
there is one to speak for us to God, but how can sin¬ 
ful eyes see God? It says in the Holy Book, ‘Blessed 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


15 


are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ ” Then 
the story of Christ and the sacrifice followed. 

The eldest missionary, turning to the pilgrim, 
said: “Take this news back to your queen, that God 
is One, and there is no hope in gods of stone. Tell 
her to appeal to the Political Agent of the kingdom of 
Cratrapur. Tell him of the plot and let him advise 
her, for he is an Englishman, and knows how to man¬ 
age such affairs. He may be able to recall the king 
and get him to set his kingdom in order. That is the 
proper way to approach the English government.” 

The missionaries again rose to go, but the women 
crowded about them. “We must know more,” said the 
mother-in-law, “we may forget your story, for it is a 
new one. Come back next week.” 

“There are many to hear the story, and there are 
few of us to tell it, but we will try to come again.” 

“I am so glad I came,” said the youngest woman. 
“There are so many people who need this Message.” 

Though late in the morning the missionaries de¬ 
cided to go to Jalalpur, as this was bazaar day. If 
they could find people who were able to read, they 
would scatter portions of the Bible among them. 
There was a ride of two miles, part of it on the mili¬ 
tary road, and then they saw the busy scene of bazaar 
day. All along the street people sat with baskets of 
fruit, vegetables, and grains, while others had trink¬ 
ets and bright cotton cords for tying up the hair, or 
to run in the gathered skirts worn by Mohammedan 
women. There were beads and glass bracelets of many 
colors; there were earrings, nose rings, toe rings, 
necklaces, anklets and all kinds of cheap jewelry. 

—2— 



16 


BY WAYSIDES IX INDIA. 


There were little heaps of bright bits of glass, used 
by the women to paste upon their foreheads for orna¬ 
ments; wooden combs, tin buttons, matches, tiny 
looking-glasses, and coarse thread wound on cards, to 
tempt the passersby. There were holts of cotton cloth 
in bright colors as well as unbleached cloth right 
from the loom. It had been woven and colored there 
in the bazaar, where it was purchased and worn that 
same day—a complete costume going on without the 
stitch of a needle. Proud fathers were buying caps 
for their little sons, who, but for the caps, would have 
been quite unclothed. A boy went by eating a cucum¬ 
ber, as well satisfied as a boy of a colder clime would 
be with an apple. On the sheet of one vender were 
all kinds of spices arranged with the ever-present 
garlic. 

Before the missionaries had descended from the 
cart they were surrounded by a motley crowd of 
brown faces. There were farmers with dirty white 
kurtas (shirts) and draperies, ungainly turbans on 
their heads, and equally ungainly shoes on their feet; 
children, bright of face and scant of clothing; women 
with their purchases on their heads (not in hats, but 
in baskets). Many had children two or three years of 
age astride their hips—bright-eyed little ones eating 
guavas, turnips, radishes, cucumbers, or whatever 
pleased their youthful fancies. A fakir with ashes 
in -his long matted hair and streaked on his bare body, 
stood on the edge of the crowd. A nasal cry was 
heard and a leper, with his feet gone, crawled near 
the crowd stretching out a pitiful remnant of a hand 
for alms. His hair was quite white and his face had 
an indescribable look of gradual death. One of the 










































THE ROAD SCENE NEAR THE BAZAAR. 





BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


17 


missionaries called to a shopkeeper to give him some 
parched grain, paying for it herself in preference to 
giving the money to the leper to handle in those 
wretched, decaying hands. A woman stood near with 
her nose quite gone. 

“Is she also a leper?” was asked. 

“No; her husband cut her nose off,” sneered a 
man standing near. A woman who saw the gift be¬ 
stowed on the leper crowded her way to the cart to 
show her broken fingers. 

“Oh, what happened to them?” 

“I beat them on the stones when my husband died” 
—a man pushed her aside to show a terrible cancer. 

“Oh, dear; oh, dear!” said the youngest mission¬ 
ary, “I can not endure this!” 

“It is much worse on bazaar days than others,” 
said another missionary. “The afflicted come then to 
show their misery and beg from the people. We will 
drive on now, but first I will ask if any one wants a 
book?” 

A number wanted them for the small sum of one 
pice (one-half cent) apiece. Especially they wanted 
a little pamphlet of Christian songs. When these were 
sold they untangled themselves from the crowd slow¬ 
ly, so slowly, because of the beggars and the curious. 
Two bright-faced boys ran after them for song books, 
holding up pice that had been given them for sweet¬ 
meats. They went back happy with their new books. 
As the missionaries drove out of the bazaar they no¬ 
ticed a young woman following them rapidly. Out¬ 
side the bazaar she began to run. Before she reached 
them they stopped the cart because they caught a 
glimpse of her eager, distressed face. 




18 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


“Oh, take me with you! I can not stay here; what 
will happen to me if you leave me here? You are 
most kind and merciful. Oh, give me to ascend into 
the cart quickly, quickly, Mem Sahib!” 

Quickly they made room for the slender figure and 
she leaned over whispering to the eldest missionary: 
“My husband died last night, and we are strangers 
here.” Then she went on in a low tone. “His father’s 
house is far toward the north, but he came through 
here on his way to Benares to find a guru (master) 
who could tell him if he might cross the black water 
and become a scholar; and now he is dead! No one 
knows he is dead in the serai (travelers’ rest house) 
not far from here. His body must be burned with 
proper ceremonies. I have jewelry here about my 
waist. I saw you pass this morning and I followed 
you. If you do not help me I must throw myself into 
a well or die some way. There is no one but the white 
people who would not be glad to seize my jewels, and 
I will die of shame among strangers!” 

“What emergencies!” thought the younger mis¬ 
sionary. 

“We can not all go,” said the missionary to whom 
the woman had spoken. She had turned to her com¬ 
panions, and was speaking in English. “We will get 
another cart at the next village and you must go on 
home in this one. I know you want to help, but it is 
better for fewer to go. It will be necessary to send 
Mungli and Baldev to inform the Tahsildar (a civil 
officer) of the occurrence.” 

When they reached the serai, the elder woman 
descended and with the native woman peered in. A 
young native man lay dead on a cot. He had evidently 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


19 


died from cholera. A woman of the sweeper caste 
had already arrived and a man of the same caste 
stood outside. That meant that these outcaste people 
could he called upon for help. The missionary left 
there never forgot that afternoon. Preparations for 
the burial were begun before the men who were sent 
for arrived. When they came a policeman, sent by 
the Tahsildar, was with them. Thankful indeed was 
the faint and weary missionary that the comfortable 
missionary tanga (cart) was sent to take her home. 
She took the wailing wife home with her. “Home, 
home,” the missionary repeated to herself, “thank 
God for a home in this stranger land.” 

After a few days the young woman told her story. 
“My father-in-law had two wives. My husband’s own 
mother was dead and the women of that household 
were not kind to me when I went there as a child- 
wife. My husband did not know how wicked they 
were and I was afraid to tell, they told me such dread¬ 
ful stories. I constantly feared the vengeance of the 
gods for some of the sins I was told I daily committed. 
The years went on and no children came to me. Lit¬ 
tle boys and girls played about the household, but 
there were none of them mine. After a pilgrimage 
which my husband took, and after having made many 
offerings myself to the gods, a tiny baby daughter 
was born to us, but she never breathed. It was better 
so, but I loved that little still baby more than any¬ 
thing that has ever come to me. Everybody but my 
husband told me it was better that she was born dead. 
My husband was all the time studying, and he learned 
English in the great school in Calcutta. At last he 
told me he wanted to go over the ‘black water’ and 



20 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


learn more, but his people said it could never be, that 
it would break his caste and disgrace them all. He 
told me he did not care for caste rules. I was very 
much frightened and trembled every time I thought 
of my husband’s breaking caste. After a while, when 
his father died, he became rich enough to gain the de¬ 
sire of his heart, and then he told me of this wise 
sage who lives in Benares. We were going to him, 
but we stopped off at the station nearest here to find 
the temple of Jalalpur, where the light burns. My 
husband asked every traveler we met what they knew 
of the wise men of each place, and so he learned of 
some gurus (masters) about here. Now I know the 
gods were made angry by his desire to cross the black 
waters! His two older brothers will take all his prop¬ 
erty, for they will think me the cause of this—and 
who knows but that my sins have wrought my widow¬ 
hood? I dare not go back to those wicked mothers-in- 
law and the wives of my husband’s older brothers. 
You are kind to me and all my hope is in you. My 
husband was to get money from his uncle in Benares. 
We had sixty rupees (about twenty dollars) and my 
jewels with us. I took the money from him when he 
was ill and he told me to hide it in my clothes. I shall 
never return to my husband’s family, and I will be 
only a disgrace to my own people. I shall spend my 
years in pilgrimages, to get rid of this sin which has 
caused my widowhood.” 

“You must not talk more of this, little sister, for 
your face is hot and you tremble so.” 

But the young widow went on: “I talked with 
him much about consulting the gods and the great 
Brahmins. It was to please me that he stopped here 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


21 


on his way to Benares. The gods are angry with me 
when I was true to them, and so they have taken my 
husband’s life. My people are all dead but my broth¬ 
er, and he will fear my baneful influence. There is 
nothing for me, a childless widow, but death. You 
are so kind and merciful, do you not fear a widow?” 

“You are only to be pitied, not feared; you may 
live here with Gulabi Bai and we will teach you God’s 
love and mercy,” was the reply. 

“Is Gulabi Bai a Brahmin?” 

“Gulabi Bai is a Christian.” 

“Then we can not eat together!” 

“You may cook your own food and eat by yourself, 
though God has not separated His children, as you 
suppose.” 

Later the missionary said to her companion: “How 
I thank our Father for that allowance for the help of 
widows, which a dear Christian widow sent our 
Board. I built the house where Gulabi Bai lives with 
a part of the money, and it will be such a good refuge 
for this woman. I am glad it is ready this very day. 
We will keep her and teach her.” 

Ah, roadsides in India hold many stories! 





F*&pt II 



BICYCLE sped along the military road 
and the young woman mounted upon it 
wore a pleasant smile on her face. To be 
sure, the face and smile were almost ob¬ 
scured by the shadow of a huge pith sun- 
helmet, but she was happy, and enjoying 
that feeling of freedom one has when riding a 
wheel. She was also looking forward to her morn¬ 
ing in the village. Before her lay an avenue 
of bamboo waving airily in the slight breeze. 
The shadows were most inviting on this hot 
morning. A great lumbering cart drawn by two 
oxen lay between her and that shady bit. The 
driver began to turn his animals out of the way and 
was going through a whole gymnastic performance 
in doing so, at the same time making strange cries 
to the oxen, when the light figure flitted by. He 
stopped in the middle of the road, staring and gasping 
with astonishment. On she went until she saw a 
bowed form just ahead of her, apparently the figure 
of an old woman carrying a burden. Thinking she 
was probably deaf, the young woman dismounted for 
fear the sudden passing might frighten her. 

“ Aree-h /” exclaimed the old woman, dropping her 
burden. 


















































' 




































































A VILLAGE IN INDIA. 







BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


3 


The young American spoke to her cheerily. “This 
is my foot-wagon; do you wish to see me ride upon 
it? Perhaps I am going to your village. What vil¬ 
lage are you from?” 

“Pachkhura.” 

“Yes, that is just the place I am going. Are there 
many people in your village?” 

“Many, many have died,” the old woman respond¬ 
ed; “the clouds give no rain and though we sow our 
fields we get no harvest. Last night my sister-in-law 
died because we could not give her the food she need¬ 
ed. Everybody will die, for the gods are angry with 
Hindustan.” 

“Do you know that the people of Hindustan have 
long worshiped gods of wood and stone? Listen and 
I will tell you the Truth.” 

The missionary told the old story so new to the 
listener, but she saw in that face a word written that 
only “Give ye them to eat” could reach. “Famine” 
was certainly engraved there. 

“Sister,” she said, “here are some pice; go and 
buy you something to eat.” 

The poor woman fell on the ground with many ex¬ 
pressions of abject gratitude. “Go and get your food, 
and remember there is one God who is Father of us 
all, and one Savior who can save from sin.” 

On through that fatal sunshine the missionary 
sped, when suddenly she saw, lying prone in the dust, 
a small brown figure. 

“What has happened?” she exclaimed in Hindu- 
stanee. The figure rolled over and sat up. 

“I have no one,” said the little boy, with feverish 
looking eyes, raising a trembling hand as though in 



24 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


fear of the strange person standing over him. “I 
came home from the fields and found my parents 
dead, and I ran away. Now I have no one. I burn 
with fever, and I have found nothing to eat.” 

“Can you walk?” asked the missionary. 

The child staggered to his feet. “A little,” he an¬ 
swered, at the same time falling back into a little 
heap of brown again. “I am dying of fever.” 

“I will get a cart to take you to a place where you 
shall have care.” She sprang on her wheel and soon 
met the cart she had passed. 

“Can you take a boy to the Mission House?” she 
asked the man in the cart. “You have seen the bunga¬ 
low in the town?” 

“Yes, yes,” said the driver. 

“You will be paid for taking him.” 

“How much?” 

“You will be paid for one-half day’s work with 
your team. It is only about a kos distant (two 
miles).” 

The driver tarried, but finally decided to return 
with the boy. The missionary took a pencil and pa¬ 
per out of the bag hanging to her wheel and wrote a 
note which she gave to the man, who looked at it 
most curiously. 

“Give this to the Mem Sahib and she will pay you 
and take the boy.” 

The cart went jogging back over the road and the 
missionary went on to the village. She looked over 
the plain and saw clumps of trees, marking the vil¬ 
lage sites. She saw in imagination the white towers of 
little churches. She saw by the roadside tiny school- 
houses, and met merry brown children with books 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


25 


and slates going happily to school. She saw these in 
her dreams instead of mud huts, and temples, and 
thin, naked figures suffering and prone in the dust. 
Hers was a prophet’s soul and she saw possibilities. 

Shortly she met two men plodding along in the 
dust. They made funny village obeisances and she 
was about to pass on when she recognized them as 
two farmers whom the missionaries had once helped 
to procure seed grain. Now they were pausing. 

“You had great mercy on us,” said the men, “but 
the gods had no mercy and our fields are dry as dust. 
Do you think the Mem Sahib would lend us rupees?” 

“We have few rupees and can not lend,” she said 
sadly. 

“Are not the Sahib-log rich and could they not lend 
us a few rupees?” 

“We are not rich, but the true God whom we wor¬ 
ship does supply our needs. We hope to help the peo¬ 
ple of India, but they follow gods who teach them to 
injure their bodies and spirits, and to keep their 
country in darkness. Their teachers whom they rev¬ 
erence do deeds most hateful to the Father in Heaven. 
How much have you given your priests to bring rain? 
Now you are coming to us to give you the money the 
God you will not serve has given us to save the help¬ 
less little ones. Did you read the book the Mem Sahib 
gave you that day in which she told you were written 
the words of life?” 

One man said he could not read; the other an¬ 
swered that his guru (master) said it was not good 
for him to read. 

“Ah, so you scorn God’s word and yet you ask for 
His mercy and money to buy grain for your fields?” 




26 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


The young missionary rode on, but her heart was 
sore. “Did I do right, did I speak right words? Was 
I hasty and unjust? More wisdom, more wisdom!” 
Such thoughts went swiftly through her brain, and 
prayers for help rose from her heart. 

As she neared the village she saw a strange figure 
standing near the entrance by a grass house. His 
skin looked like brown parchment, seamed and 
wrinkled. His small eyes were almost obscured by 
folds of skin. Their expression verged on the idiotic, 
but as the missionary drew near he began to talk and 
she soon discovered that this creature was the village 
doctor, with his bundle of precious remedies. There 
were scorpion stings, dubious oils, enchanted herbs, 
and an iron for burning off eruptions on the skin. He 
was muttering an incantation and she hastened by, 
only saying Salaam. Once within the village she 
heard groaning and crying issuing from the head¬ 
man’s quarters. One of the women of the household 
had thrown herself on a cot and was crying out. 

“What has happened?” inquired the visitor. 

“Baribai was troubled much with boils and the 
hakim (doctor) has burned them off!” 

“Oh, I shall die!” screamed the poor woman. 

“He rubbed some spices on the places,” the old 
mother-in-law explained. 

“How cruel, how cruel!” said the missionary, feel¬ 
ing her eyes filling with tears. “Bring me some water 
and some cotton.” 

Tenderly she bathed the sores amidst the woman’s 
ories, and washed out the hot spices before they could 
fester in the dreadful wounds. How she wished she 
had brought her bandages, but finally she found some 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


27 


clean cloth and managed to leave the woman much 
more comfortable. She felt too much exhausted to 
talk to them very long, but tarried to tell them how 
wrong the treatment had been. Then she said, with 
a bright smile: “We hope to have a physician from 
our country next cool season. Some one who can help 
the sick and not treat them in this cruel manner.” 

“Tell him to come very quickly. Last night Ba¬ 
hadur’s child died. She fell and hurt her arm. It 
swelled and pained her, and the bone came through 
the skin, Mem Sahib, and she died!” 

“The poor child must have broken her arm.” 

“Yes, yes, and Matra’s boy broke his leg. He is 
very lame and that leg is much shorter than the 
other.” 

“Mem Sahib , won’t you sing us a song?” asked 
another one. 

“I will sing to you about the great Physician, but 
first I must tell you of Him.” 

She told the story of Christ on earth and of His 
miracles in healing the sick. “He has given His peo¬ 
ple skill in medicine and we can also pray to Him to 
help us. In His garden in Heaven grow leaves which 
are for the healing of the nations. He can heal us 
from sin, which is the worst of diseases.” Her mes¬ 
sage was spoken and the people were invited to come 
on Sunday to the church in the town to hear more. 

Two miles distant was another village where a 
number of lepers lived. She felt that she must go 
there, too, and tell those dying ones of Jesus. Two 
women from the village were coming down the road 
as she approached. They were dressed in purplish 
cotton draperies with a wide, irregular border of a 



28 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


lighter tint. One of them carried a year-old baby 
astride her hip and the other bore a basket on her 
head. Why was it that a mental picture thrust itself 
in between the missionary and this familiar scene? 
She saw in memory two young women coming down 
an avenue in a far-away city. One wheeled a baby 
carriage along, light and dainty in pink silk 
and lace. Beneath its airy canopy the tiny face of a 
blue-eyed baby smiled out from soft embroidered pil¬ 
lows. The other young woman carried under her arm 
a neat package. The two were conversing in soft 
tones and their passing wafted a delicate violet fra¬ 
grance. But they were far away, and the women at 
her side, staring stupidly at her, had never touched 
lace, or heard in all their lives the expression of noble 
thoughts. Yet their hearts were not unloving. The 
one carrying her baby looked at him with pride when 
the white woman said, “He is a fine, healthy boy.” 

It was not a pleasant visit ahead of her and yet 
she went on hoping to take some cheer to the lepers. 
There were some wretched grass huts on the edge of 
the village and a creature stepped out of one that 
almost made the missionary w r ish to retreat. The 
poor creature had both feet gone, eaten off by the 
loathsome disease of leprosy. His hair was perfectly 
white, and his face was swollen and distorted. “Tell 
all the lepers to come to the tree by the gate; I want 
to talk with you.” Ten people, pitiful wrecks of the 
human body, gathered slowly under the tree. “What 
a figure of sin, what a figure of sin,” was the under¬ 
current of her thought. 

“Listen,” she said, “next Sunday a Christian man 
will bring you all some rice. To-day I have come to 





BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


29 


tell you that there is hope for you, that the one God 
has salvation for you also.” They listened and one 
of them wept and called his body a prison. As she 
rose to go she saw on the other side of the tree a stone 
with a patch of red paint upon it. It was a village 
deity, to them a deliverer from their cherished fear of 
demons. The worship of the majority of the villagers 
of India is a worship of demons, of whom they live in 
constant fear and dread. 

Her thought ran on as she turned homeward. This 
has been my day of seeing physical suffering, it seems. 
How closely connected is the soul and the body; but 
these people do not know that the soul has wings, that 
there can be a rising above the prison life of the 
earth. He came to seek and to save the lost, He saw 
life’s saddest side with deeply seeing eyes and He is 
with me. But it is hard to wait until these villages 
shall be swept and garnished, until a doctor comes 
with relief for some of the suffering, until we have 
schools where the younger generation shall receive a 
daily incentive to a higher life. She passed a grove 
of trees by a well, and thought how glad she would be 
to see underneath those trees eager brown faces look¬ 
ing into a preacher’s face as he read to them in their 
own language the words of life. She thought how she 
would like to hear them singing in that grove meet¬ 
ing, “Blest Be the Tie that Binds” and “How Firm a 
Foundation.” “It might be, it might be!” ran through 
her mind as the wheels of her bicycle rotated over the 
brown roads. Her head ached when she reached the 
Mission Home, but she found a cool resting place in 
her own room. She went in feeling weak and almost 
forgetting that she had need of food. The door opened 



30 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


softly and tlie young widow whom they found by the 
way in the first village tour slipped quietly in with a 
tray of food. 

“I saved your ‘big breakfast’ for you, Pyari (be¬ 
loved), and you must eat.” 

“How kind of you, my sister; are you happy here?” 

“So happy since I have found a friend in Jesus. I 
read some by myself this morning about His works 
and I want to go and help you in the villages. I have 
thought, too, that I would ask you to send a letter to 
my brother and tell him of my becoming a Christian. 
I believe I should tell him. They will perform my 
funeral ceremonies, I know, but I dare not let him go 
without a message from me and my Savior.” 

There are joys waiting to be found by India’s road¬ 
sides, too! 

















































. 



































A WAYSIDE TEMPLE 










Part III 


£s\ P\\ HE village of Akoni contained thirty-one 
houses and two hundred and fifty-one in¬ 
habitants. Of this number of people, there 
were one hundred and six males and nine¬ 
ty-five females. Many a little girl in that 
small village had been exposed or “let 
alone” to die. There were two Mohammedans. The 
rest were Hindus, and not one person in the village 
could read. The missionaries, in looking over the 
Census Report for their district, found that in one 
Thana (a sub-division of a district) there were seven¬ 
ty-nine villages. Of the eighteen thousand male in¬ 
habitants of these villages, only six hundred and fifty 
could read. This was deplorable enough, but of the 
seventeen thousand females not one could read. 

“I want to change that Census Report,” said one, 
earnestly. 

“If we had a teacher and three dollars and fifty 
cents a month, with—let us say—one dollar for sup¬ 
plies, we could make a great change in Akoni,” said 
the older missionary sadly. 

“We might teach a young man of that village to 
read and set him to teaching his own people, for we 
certainly have no teacher to spare now.” 

“But if he is not a Christian, the motive power 
of love, and the desire to be honest and helpful to 
— 3 — 





32 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


others, would not be there. He would also observe 
caste distinctions in the school. We need a Christian 
man whom we can oversee. I thinjc we might get a 
Christian man and his wife from some old school of 
another mission, but that money-” 

“We must do something to evangelize our villages 
anyway, and I am going to-morrow,” said another. 

Early the next morning she went to one of the vil¬ 
lages they had not visited for three months. “How 
glad we are that you have come again,” said one 
woman, “but Amma (mother) is dead. She died 
mourning for her son, who never returned from Jag- 
annath, and his widow started on the same pilgrim¬ 
age last week. She will try to find him, but we be¬ 
lieve she is a widow. Amma wanted to see you very 
much before she died. She said you spoke sweet 
words.” 

How the heart of the missionary sank. So many 
were depending on her, on one solitary woman of 
limited strength, for every word of Eternal Life and 
Hope! Ah, they laid thick about her, a thousand un¬ 
reached villages, and there were only a half dozen 
laborers with an occasional opportunity of going out 
into the vast and dying harvest field! If she had been 
able to leave her room last week she might have saved 
the young wife from the dangers of that pilgrimage, 
but oh, the limits! Bodies that grow weary and faint, 
spirits sickening at the continued sights and sounds 
of idolatry and its curses. Money that fails in the 
hand reached out to help the suffering and the dying. 
Limits! Limits! The old pilgrim had come back to 
find the white woman and hear more, but she had not 
waited. The queen had sent her on another quest for 




BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


33 


help to Badrinath, high up amid the Himalayan 
snows, ten thousand four hundred feet above the level 
of the sea. “The old woman will never survive going 
from the heat of the plains to the cold of that high 
altitude,” thought the missionary. “They do not wait 
for one to come. They go on in their search for a 
Hope and do not wait. In my home town to-day, with 
its population of five thousand, there are six churches, 
with buildings and pastors. My share of our parish 
here is two hundred and fifty villages, a town of 
twelve thousand, and two towns of five thousand. Is 
there any use, is there any use in trying?” 

“.Mem Sahib, my brother bought one of your books 
and he wants you to come to our house. He is sick.” 

The young missionary turned to greet a large-eyed 
child wrapped in his dhoti (drapery) and started 
with him toward a mud house. On a cot outside lay 
a young man who raised himself on his elbow. 

“I have read your book, Mem Sahib. I read it be¬ 
fore the fever came and all the time while I burned 
with fever I heard a voice saying: ‘Let him that is 
a-thirst come! Let him that is a-thirst come!’ It is 
in the back of your book. Tell me of the One who 
said these gracious words. I am tired of thirst and 
hunger. I have never been satisfied. My heart is 
very weary.” 

“I will tell you some more gracious words, brother. 
‘Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, 
and I will give you rest.’ There is but One who can 
satisfy us and that One is Jesus, God’s Only Son, His 
Only Incarnation. He never meant that we should 
depend on bits of wood and stone and clay for com¬ 
fort. The Father in Heaven wants to comfort us and 



34 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


rest us Himself. He wants us to have faith in Him 
who is above all principalities and powers, and He 
has given Him a name that is above every name. Our 
God is above us and all we can make. Do you not 
believe in Jesus as your Savior?” 

“Yes, yes; this Book has taught me that idolatry 
is a sin. I shall never worship that stone yonder 
again. I have told no one, but I wish you to call my 
people. I have something to say to them.” 

The missionary beckoned to the mother and broth¬ 
er. The mother was a widow, but there was still an¬ 
other son and his wife. The wife of the sick man sat 
near with her cloth over her face. 

“I want to tell you that stone yonder is only a 
stone. I worship it never more. I worship Him who 
rules heaven and earth. I take His Son, Jesus, for 
my Savior.” 

“Alas, Alas! the gods will punish you and us, for 
those first words,” said the mother. “Worship whom 
you will, but forsake not these!” 

With a prayer on her lips the missionary turned 
to the mother. “When you come to the door of death, 
will you not want something better than the hope of 
living over and over in some dying earthly form? 
There is a better hope for you and for him. A hope to 
live in the mansions of God’s own House, to live with 
the good and pure eternally. I am giving you God’s 
Word, something higher than man ever spake.” Then 
she recited clearly in their own language, “In my 
Father’s house are many mansions.” 

“A good word, a good word,” murmured the sick 
man. “I never learned this by the Ganges. I have 
been troubled, for I refused to take the mantar from 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


35 


my guru.” [The mantar is a sacred formula whis¬ 
pered by the guru, or religious guide, into the ear of 
the devotee, to be kept as a motto. It is given spe¬ 
cially to those who are intending to lead a religious 
life.] “I have been told it is very unlikely that 
I shall be born a human being when I leave this body, 
because I refused to take the mantar. I feared to die, 
but now you tell me salvation is through Jesus Christ. 
Tell me more.” 

She sat there an hour and talked. His people 
crowded about. There was a shade on the faces of 
some, but the young man’s face was full of light. As 
usual, she carried some medicine for fever with her, 
which she gave to him. Then she prayed with him. 
As she went avray the mother followed her. 

“Don’t let him speak against our gods,” she 
begged, “they will curse us and him!” 

She tried to make it all more clear to the mother, 
but she only shook her head, trying not to listen. 

“And I,” she thought, “was oppressed with all re¬ 
maining to be done, even discouraged, and God led 
me to a prepared soul this very morning. How differ¬ 
ent are their sick beds from ours! No clean, inviting 
sheets, no pillows, no crystal glasses of refreshing 
water. Nothing clean, nothing dainty. No one skill¬ 
ful, no one who knows how to be really kind! There 
that sick man lay on sagging ropes woven across the 
cot with a thin, dirty resai (a sort of cotton mattress) 
under him. The glaring sun was upon him until I 
told them to change his position. They will probably 
move him back again, now I am gone. We must get 
at the root of the matter. There will be no real 
change until idolatry is supplanted by Christianity. 





36 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


We may try to lop off the effects, but the root of the 
trouble remains. They need what Jesus teaches and 
they must believe on Him.” So the missionary mused 
until she came to a bathing tank, at the edge of which 
she saw there was a great excitement. 

“What has happened?” she questioned. 

“Some women were down here bathing,” said an 
old man. “Mungli’s wife fell in and a mehter pulled 
her out just before she was drowned. The woman’s 
husband is a caste man and he is going to beat the 
mehter for touching his wife!” 

The missionary stood there aghast, but the old 
man told his story as a mere commonplace. A me li¬ 
ter is an out-caste, a scavenger, but he had saved a 
woman’s life and was going to be beaten for it! 

“You ungrateful man. He has saved your wife’s 
life. She would be lying here dead but for him. You 
should reward him with a gift!” 

“He touched her,” said the man, stolidly, but he 
made no further attempt to strike his wife’s rescuer. 

The mehter went off quietly, not stopping to wring 
out his wet garments, seeming glad to escape the beat¬ 
ing. The missionary passed on thinking of the daily 
papers in her home town. Such an act in their vicinity 
would call forth public praise for the citizen of such 
bravery and presence of mind, and this young man 
had gone forth with curses instead of blessings. He 
accepted his fate, as he considered it. This belonged 
to a set of not unusual happenings, but the American 
woman was full of indignation. 

It was growing very hot. She felt that she should 
not be out in the sun now, but she saw some women 
by a well and felt constrained to speak to them. 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


37 


“May I tell you about the Water of Life?” she 
asked. 

The women paused. One was just leaving with 
two jars of water, one on top the other on her head. 
Another was drawing up her jar from the well. Others 
stood waiting. Some looked wonderingly at the Mem 
Sahib, some stupidly, but she preached to them the 
sermon of Jesus by the well. 

“Yes, yes; we need much water,” assented one 

woman. 

“What is there, after this life?” asked the mission¬ 
ary, changing her plan. 

“Ko jane?” exclaimed an old woman, “Who 
knows?” 

“You will be born a mosquito, perhaps, said a 
younger woman, carefully brushing that insect from 
her hand. 

They lingered while she spoke to them. One wom¬ 
an said she wished her religion was like that. One 
said her neighbor had eaten some of the offerings to 
Mahadeo (the great god) and he would be a dog in 
his next birth. That all dogs contained the souls of 
those who had eaten offerings belonging to Mahadeo. 
She had never eaten any offerings, so she did not 
know what there was for her after death. Being a 
woman was bad enough and she showed the mission¬ 
ary two dreadful scars on one limb below the knee. 

“How came those?” 

“My man cut me there with a rope.” 

“Where do you live?” 

“In your town. We often see you buying in the 
bazaar and saying kind words. They sound sweet 





38 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


and I heard you sing a song one day about some one 
who had saved your life.” 

“Yes, I know the one you mean; shall I sing it?” 

Two women now went off. Their Hindu sister’s 
story had reminded them that a beating might await 
them, too, if they did not hasten. 

“Jesus has saved by life,” 

the song began, and it told of the World’s Savior. The 
women nodded their heads and the one who had spok¬ 
en wept. 

“I will try to come to your house. Tell me where 
it is,” said the missionary, rising from the well curb 
to go. The woman explained the location and the fig¬ 
ures bearing the water jars went in different direc¬ 
tions towards their abodes. 

The young widow, Anandibai, was waiting for the 
missionary when she returned. “I want to go with 
you to-morrow, sister. I have read my chapter and 
have my message. It is the second chapter of the 
Apostle Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. We can not 
be saved by our own works.” 

This same day a letter came from Anandibai’s 
brother. It only said they were worshiping the gods 
that they might not curse them on her account; that 
her father-in-law and his household told the people 
that she had killed her husband, and they would kill 
her if she returned. The youngest of the mission¬ 
aries took Anandibai with her into her room that first 
night after this cruel letter came. In the night when 
she heard her sobbing, the missionary went to her. 




A VILLAGE HOME. 


























































• ^ 


























BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


39 


The girl only said: “Don’t mind me, for it will be 
all right. I have a comfort. Jesus will not for¬ 
sake me.” 

What a hope! 



rfrs. 




Part IV. 


M OW many life messages we receive along 
the way,” thought the missionary, as she 
rode away the next day with Anandibai. 
“If one goe3 on to fuller living they 
should not ask to linger in any way, how¬ 
ever sweet. Life is so full, so full. One 
needs a deepened heart.” 

“Hai, hair (alas, alas!) some one was crying 
near by, and the missionary left off her meditation 
and touched life again, such wretched life. A girl of 
perhaps eight years sat by the dusty roadside. 

“Where are you going, and what is the matter?” 

“I have nowhere to go. I was told to get out of my 
village, for there is famine there.” 

“Where is your village?” 

“There,” she replied, pointing to a clump of trees 
on the road not far away. 

“Get in the front of the cart and I will take you 
back.” 

“They will beat me.” 

“Get in; I will take care of you.” 

The child climbed in the cart and crouched down 
in a frightened manner. When they reached the vil¬ 
lage the missionary took her in with her. 

“Whose child is this?” she asked the headman. 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


41 


“She is a weaver’s child, and there is no food for 
such as she in this village. She steals and better peo¬ 
ple than she will die of hunger. She has no one but 
an old aunt who is in her son’s house. They do not 
want the girl. Her marriage is arranged.” 

“Where is her aunt?” 

“Over there,” the headman said, designating the 
house. 

An old woman was bent over a small loom in front 
of the hut. 

“Is this your neice?” asked the missionary. 

“She is none of mine! What has she been doing 
now?” grunted the old creature, looking curiously at 
the foreign woman in the strange clothes. 

“I shall take her to my house. Has her marriage 
been made?” 

“Yes, and it cost much, your honor, and I shall 
need that money. She ran away from her father-in- 
law’s house and they will not take her back-” 

“They beat me every day,” interrupted the child. 

“People are always complaining of her and I eat 
an oath that you will have only trouble with her.” 

“But I will take her and see if she will not try to 
be a good girl. I hope she will attend to what she is 
taught. Come with me, daughter.” 

The girl darted to the side of her new friend and 
kept close to her until they were in the cart again. 

At the next village they found a wedding proces¬ 
sion about to start. The drumming and clanging of 
the so-called musical instruments was heard before 
they reached the town. When they came to the en¬ 
trance, the missionary and Anandibai were invited 
within. There sat the bridegroom, a boy of twelve or 




42 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


thirteen, upon his temporary throne. About him 
were Brahmins and astronomers, chanting, making 
prayers and reading in their books, hoping to find a 
lucky fate for the bridegroom. No one mentioned the 
bride! 

This young bridegroom belonged to the writer 
caste. The men of this caste are generally clerks or 
copyists. His forehead was marked with the tika. 
Some turmeric had been ground to yellow powder and 
was streaked upon his forehead and then some whole 
grains of rice were stuck on. These are symbols of 
abundance of food. He was dressed in the wedding 
garments, which -were mostly yellow. On his head 
was a huge yellow turban. His eyes stared from a 
rim of lampblack and great earrings dangled from his 
ears. He was supposed to be in royal state, but the 
child was being paraded around as helpless as a 
chained monkey. He was about to start for the bride’s 
house, or the house of her father, in a decorated pa¬ 
lanquin. He would meet the bride’s procession some¬ 
where outside her village. The boy bridegroom looked 
very much embarrassed. The crowds about him were 
making extremely personal remarks, flattering and 
joking him. The missionary stood looking at it all 
as a picture. She saw the procession start with the 
unmusical instruments. She saw the dancing girls 
and heard the rude songs. No one had time to listen, 
for most of the people were in the procession. The 
child wife, she was told, was only five years old. No 
one thought pityingly of the tiny bride or the gayly 
decorated groom, who were children without choice 
in this important matter. She would probably re- 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


43 


ceive no consideration, and he no real companionship 
or sympathy. It seemed so much a playing at life. 

The missionary found an old woman muttering 
under a tree by the entrance. 

“They are gone,” said the American. 

“Yes,” the old woman replied in the rude village 
dialect. “Let us go. Women are so fickle and frail 
that you are never sure what their lives will turn 
out to be.” 

She said this in the sing song of a proverb. Anan- 
dibai stood there, silent up to this time. The mission¬ 
ary looked at her and found her eyes were full of 
tears. 

“Sister, I can remember when a tiny girl of riding 
out, borne aloft, to meet my husband. He did not see 
me, however, till we were married. Few, few Hindu 
women go to such a heart as I went to. Boys are 
taught proverbs that make them so ignorant of 
woman, and these same proverbs make women disbe¬ 
lieve themselves. My husband was taught this: ‘A 
drum, a rustic, a servant, a woman—all these go on 
right when struck,’ but he never struck me. Mine 
was an unusual state. Our Vedas declare that woman 
is an incarnation of sin. That bridegroom just going 
away in his yellow wedding draperies has been care¬ 
fully taught that women are vain and deceitful. It 
makes me weep for my country since I have known 
you and the good news for women that is in the Gos¬ 
pel. The family that begins in this play will have 
no one to help them to be good. Maybe they will start 
out on a vain pilgrimage after salvation and knowl¬ 
edge. Oh, if my husband could have found before he 



44 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


died the salvation and other worldly wisdom I have 
found.” 

Anandibai sank down by the roadside and cried 
bitterly. 

The old woman crept near her. “Hai! Hai! What 
has happened?” 

“I am a widow!” Anandibai sobbed. 

“See, woman,” said the old pilgrim; “my arms and 
hands are bare. Long ago I had my jewels torn from 
me. Long ago they spoke bitter words to me, and 
cursed me. I lost my bright draperies and received 
this,” and she showed a breadth of her scant, dirty 
cloth once the widow’s white. “I went and poured 
out my grief to the fields. Everybody hates me. There 
I have been burned. There a housewife scalded me 
lest my shadow curse her. There is where a boy beat 
me for sport. Here is where I cut myself and tried to 
bleed to death. I have nothing but trouble, and now 
I shall sit in this village and die. My house is de¬ 
stroyed, but when a little girl my wedding procession 
went out this gate. I had a bright cloth about me, 
and jewels, and there was feasting, and singing, and 
dancing. Then I was a wife and my husband was 
sometimes kind and sometimes hard and cruel. I 
have been beaten many times, though I gave him 
three sons. The sons died and he blamed me for their 
death. I am a long time widowed and since I saw 
the smoke rising from his funeral pyre I have not 
had one kind word spoken to me.” 

“Sister,” said Anandibai, softly, “there is love for 
such as you and me. I, too, have tasted of the same 
sorrow, but I have found a Friend. My friend is 
Jesus, who is God’s only Son. He has conquered death, 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


45 


and Ke teaches that the sadder people are the more 
kindly they should be treated. In His Gospel there is 
a place for the widow and the out-caste. Come with 
us. I believe I was allowed to come to-day to guide 
you to a better destiny. Since I became a believer in 
Jesus I have had no opportunity to go about telling 
of His love and to-day I have come to take you as my 
first gift to Him.” 

“I do not understand,” said the old woman in a 
dazed manner. 

“Come to our house,” the missionary said to her. 
“We do not believe that widows are curses. Anandi- 
bai will teach you and we will give you love.” 

The old woman arose, saying, “I will get my dish 
and come;” but Anandibai said they would say she 
stole the dish and asked her to leave it behind, for 
she would receive another from her new friends. 
They took her into the cart and drove back to the 
town. This was the second widow in a God- 
planned Woman’s Home. How different were the two 
women. One so young and gentle and good to look 
upon. The other so old and marred and unhappy 
looking. The missionary thanked the Father that 
the younger widow had been found before blighting 
hands had been laid heavily upon her. The girl whom 
nobody wanted sat in one corner of the cart with her 
arms clasped over her knees, drawn up into a little 
bunch. She was going to what was to her an un¬ 
known fate, yet she sat there with no sign of fear. 
Perhaps she was a philosopher and reasoned that if 
this life to which she was going was miserable, it 
would be a different kind of misery, and the change 
would refresh her. 





46 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


It was growing near noon and the missionary was 
thinking how much could be crowded into even a half 
day of life. She was thinking of her childhood and of 
how fond she was of “stories.” Now almost every day 
one or more new earth life-stories were told to her in 
part, always “to be continued” unless death had said, 
“The end.” As they drove on they passed many a 
wayside shrine. Sometimes it was only a stone set 
up under a sacred tree, a shapeless stone perhaps, and 
yet they called it “Great God.” There was one near 
them now, and a man was eagerly leaving his offering 
of cocoanuts there; a full-grown man with a face not 
at all unintelligent, and one whose sacred cord told 
that he was a Brahmin, of the highest caste of the 
Hindus. Even he was at this worship—and God’s 
great, beautiful world bathed in sunshine was all 
about. The lace-like verdure of the tamarind and 
bamboo, mingled with the plumes of the palm. The 
skies were blue, washed clear by the rains. For a 
moment they had been so happy, just living amidst 
all the beauty, and then they saw this man crouched 
before them worshiping a shapeless stone. 

“Look up! look up!” the missionary cried, almost 
involuntarily. “God is not pleased that you worship, 
instead of Him, a stone. Brother, take this book; it 
tells you of Him.” 






A MAN WORSHIPING A STONE. 




























♦ 

























































































■ • -- 























































Part V, 


j^' p^HE dry, hot days were over and the wet, 
hot days had come. Then it was hard to 
go to the villages, hut the playing at life 
went on there. The “rains” meant that 
there would not be famine the next year 
and all discomfort was accepted as a fore¬ 
runner of better days. One day two of the mission¬ 
aries went to a near village. The headman’s son was 
sick with cholera. The missionaries were too late to 
help him, though they had remedies with them. The 
young man was in utter collapse. They tried heat and 
stimulants, but it was too late. 

“Six people died here yesterday of that sickness,” 
said a man of the village. In the wailing and crying 
over the headman’s son the hopelessness of Hindu¬ 
ism was once more revealed. No one had a single 
word of hope to speak. He was dead, and perhaps 
even now was a dumb animal or a crawling insect. 
At best he belonged to others, never to them again. 

Again they told the story of the Resurrection and 
the Life. “Oh, this dying country!” one exclaimed 
as they left. “No, they do not wait for us. They do 
not wait for all to be set in order in the homeland. 
Long have we delayed. Foreigners are sweeping into 
our home country. The non-Christians are going in 
hordes to take advantage of the prosperity of our 
— 4 — 





48 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


Christian nation. The home-people can not live apart 
from the alien, the atheist and the heathen. How 
much better did they send those to teach them in 
their natural habitat! I am so weary of finding su¬ 
perstition and absurd reasoning everywhere and peo¬ 
ple believing a lie.” The elder missionary spoke these 
words with deep feeling and tears were in her voice. 

“It is harder to bear when one has a headache as 
well as a heartache,” said the other. “You are not 
physically well to-day and we are going home. Think 
that Anandibai waits us there; that the poor old 
widow has a word of love and kindness spoken to her 
to-day; that little children are learning a “new song” 
to sing to their people when our voices are silent 
here. Think, dear one, that though millions lie off 
there in that cloudy east without a helper, we are 
training helpers to go to them. No day passes with¬ 
out an opportunity to tell of God’s love to men, and 
you help us all. Think of the sisters in the home¬ 
land who are praying for us now, and who are work¬ 
ing to send forth more laborers into this great har¬ 
vest field.” 

“Yes, it all comforts me. I am troubled with head¬ 
ache these days. I think these bodies have such a 
great deal to do wuth the soul life after all. I do pray 
to rise above the physical, but it conquers some¬ 
times.” 

Outside the village the people were gathering to 
appease the silent pow T er which was working in their 
midst bringing death so soon— Haija, the swiftly 
coming, destructive cholera. No one would take the 
name of the disease upon his lips. It is a sickness to 
them most mysterious and most feared. The mission- 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


49 


aries stopped to tell the men about some sanitary pre¬ 
cautions and went on to another village. 

“What a difference between that boy’s death and 
Hira Lai’s! Do you remember that dear Christian 
boy’s last request, that on his grave should be written, 
‘Not lost, but gone to his Lover’?” Thus they con¬ 
versed together until they came to the next group of 
houses. They stopped by a tiny grass house, where a 
potter’s family lived, who made their water jars. The 
family was all out of doors and regarding them won- 
deringly. 

“Will you bring us some more water jars?” asked 
one of the missionaries. 

“Ye3, your honor; I will bring them on bazaar 
day.” 

Just then a cry rang out. “What is that?” 

“Oh, nothing, Mem Sahib. It is only the Kacher- 
i?i’s new daughter-in-law. She is a very bad child.” 

“Where do they live?” 

“Back of my house,” said the man. 

They went there quickly and found a woman of 
middle age meting out punishment to a girl of ten. 
A young man was holding the girl and his mother 
was deliberately pinching her cheeks all over, while 
the child was helplessly screaming. 

“Stop that!” exclaimed the elder missionary em¬ 
phatically. Both the tormentors loosed their hold 
and sprang up in fear and surprise, and both started 
to run. “Wait,” said the same missionary, “why were 
you doing this?” 

“She is lazy and ran away,” said the old woman. 

“And she does not cook my food properly,” added 
the young man. 



50 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


The child was sobbing and her face was already 
swelling from the bruises. 

“Is there a policeman here? You need to be put 
in the jail-khana (prison), both of you.” 

They both looked frightened and then they begged 
her not to let the Sirkar (government) punish them. 
They had never seen the missionaries and so thought 
that they were connected with the governing spirit. 

“Such cruelty should be reported to the govern¬ 
ment. I shall take your names,” was the answer. 

They then started towards the headman’s house. 

“Has your sister-in-law come back from her search 
for her husband?” was the first question asked. 

“No, no,” they said sadly. “They are both dead, 
we believe. No message comes from them. Our 
father-in-law has taken him another wife since Amma 
died. She is a young woman and is very hard, and 
has a bitter tongue. She is within putting on her 
jewelry to show you. She came from a distant vil¬ 
lage.” 

A young woman soon emerged brightly dressed, 
with nose rings, toe rings, earrings and finger rings. 
She evidently felt her position. She had no mother- 
in-law and was herself filling that place. She said 
she was from a village belonging to a native king; 
that her father was rich, and her wedding was very 
grand. She enumerated the amount of rice and sugar 
and sweetmeats that had been used on that occasion. 
She was to have been this headman’s wife even had 
the old woman not died. So she rattled on until one 
of the missionaries asked: “Has your husband still 
other wives?” 




BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


51 


“Oh, no; he has no other; he will never have an¬ 
other while I live. The old woman was very tiresome 
and her tongue was bitter.” 

The daughters-in-law sat there looking morose 
and -were quite silent. The younger missionary opened 
her Hindi hymn book and began singing a song of 
which the refrain is, “All days do not pass the same, 
sometimes there is sunshine and sometimes shadow.” 

One stanza may be thus translated: 

“As the clouds go from color to color, 

So the world goes on in its change, 

The king and the subject, the rich and the beggar, 
One by one pass out of this range!” 

This led them to talk of things eternal, for surely 
all seemed so passing there. The months, yes, even 
the days, were full of change. The two missionaries 
now turned homeward, as ever feeling glad for the 
refuge. It had been a long day of hard work. To 
sympathize, to suffer with the suffering, means to give 
out one’s energy. 

The next day the younger missionary felt she 
must go back to the villages and see how the cholera- 
stricken people were. She promised the others not 
to go within, only to leave medicine at the gate. This 
promise she fulfilled. Ten others had died in the 
night. She called a young man she knew and care¬ 
fully instructed him as to the medicine, which was 
very powerful. She was not gone long, but when she 
returned as far as the gate of the mission grounds 
she felt that something unusual was occurring. Anan- 
dibai ran out of the house with her garments disar¬ 
ranged and her face agonized. “Sister jee, the big sis¬ 
ter jee is sick and we believe it is —haijaT 




52 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


“Cholera and her!” was the thought that flashed 
through the young missionary’s mind. She had not 
been well yesterday and they had gone unknowingly 
into the cholera-stricken village. She was tired out 
at the end of the hot season—was she to find her rest 
now? She tried to quiet her trembling lips and 
hands. “Father, give me strength and calmness, for 
Jesus’ sake!” The oft-repeated prayer came natur¬ 
ally and its influences, no, His influence, nestled in 
her heart. Then she saw one of the dear missionary 
sisters carrying a hot water bag into the room, and 
she knew that the sick one was cold. Oh, that dread¬ 
ful chill! She softly opened the bedroom door and 
crept in. 

“Little sister, I seem to know now how the people 
feel. Think of feeling your strength slipping away 
and no one to help, no one to give you courage. No 
Father in Heaven to pray to, no Jesus on this side, 
at the edge of the valley, to go all the way through it 
with you! Oh, I seem to know how dark the other 
side, the one they know, must be, from knowing how 
light is this side! I know as never before how India’s 
poor, ignorant people must suffer, not only from what 
they have, but from what they have not!” With what 
emphasis the sick woman spoke. 

“Dear one, you are not to feel these things now. 
You are to get warm and well. See, Anandibai is 
bringing a good Jcuncla of coals. You shall have it 
right here. Does it not feel good?” 

The eager voice was silent and the eyes closed. 
Now she is speaking again. “I feel no pain now. I am 
glad that is over. Sister, those people in the vil¬ 
lage can not think that there is brightness and green- 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


53 


ness after while, that trees are waving whose leaves 
are for healing, that there is a Son of Righteousness 
who can bring warmth and comfort, when the chill is 
so dreadful. Tell Anandibai, whom we found by the 
"wayside, that she is to be a messenger to those with¬ 
out hope when the river is chill. You know the one 
we sing about in girja (church) — 

“Gahriri wah nadiya, nawa purani —” 

“Yes, dear, ‘the river is deep and the boat is old, 
hut Jesus will take me across.’ You have taught a 
great many people to sing that. You are to teach 
many more, we trust. Aren’t you getting warmer?’’ 

“It is very cold, little sister. I wish the sun was 
shining. It seems so dark-” 

Oh, was she to go after all! The other mission¬ 
aries came in and spoke to her. 

“I can not see you, but when I can see, I shall ‘see 
Him as He is.’ Tell the people—oh, tell the people 
so they will have comfort -when the river is deep and 
cold. Bodies are poor things. I am so weak.” She 
said no more but to murmur the Hindi word for 
Jesus— Yisu, Yisu. 

The tropical sun was shining without, bright and 
w r arm over a steaming earth, for it was not late in the 
rainy season. So much warmth without and her busy 
hand so cold and still. “Bodies are poor things!” 
But that soul’s influence was to live. It was to live 
not only in a land over many seas, but in dark, ob¬ 
scure corners, that no one much cared about. In poor 
little villages by India’s waysides. Miserable lepers, 
dying slowly, would remember that a strange Mem 
Sahib had come and told them that the soul could es- 





54 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


cape and go to God. Widows would cherish through 
many a weary day the memory of a kind-voiced wom¬ 
an who'told them there was love for such as them¬ 
selves, that God loved suffering ones the more ten¬ 
derly. Many women living narrow, narrow lives had 
caught a glimpse of freedom that might be theirs in 
God’s kingdom through her words. Men had been 
told the truth that was able to make them free. Lit¬ 
tle children, yes, many a little child, had been taught 
sweet songs by her lips. She was not forty years old, 
but she had lived long, and well, and she was weary. 
She did not live to see her work fall from a nerveless 
hand, to feel that everything was growing and she 
but a withered bough; that all were passing by while 
she sat idle in the race. 

Those who had to hurry her body to the grave 
where so few English names ever had been or ever 
would be inscribed could not but think of the morrow 
and this new empty place they must try to fill. 

The young widow from out India’s despised class 
was the one to say to them: “She is absent from the 
body. I feel that she is not absent from the work, be¬ 
cause Jesus is here and she is present with Him. I 
thought and thought about it last night. Don’t you 
believe she can get closer to us than when her soul 
was in the body? Perhaps she will help get our mam 
sions ready, for she knows what we all like. Don’t 
you remember the time she, with her own hands, 
freshened up all your rooms when you were gone? I 
remember she put your favorite flowers in your 
rooms.” 

It was a comfort to hear Anandibai talk of such 
things so naturally, and we went back to work feeling 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


55 


that in some sweet, unseen way her hand was helping. 

The old widow seemed to mourn over the going 
most of all. The next Christmas day they found a 
few common flowers tied together with grass, on the 
table where the “absent” sister’s plate had been, and 
there were some bright glass bangles under the plate. 

“Whose gift is this?” one asked brightly. 

One of the natives of the household answered in 
an awed tone: “It is for the big sister. The old widow 
left it for her Christmas gift!” 

They called the old woman and told her that the 
dear one who had gone, now had the glory and bright¬ 
ness of heaven, and that she would want them to give 
what they had to give, to the poor and neglected here. 
They told her that Jesus said when we have done it 
unto the least of these we have done it unto Him. 

“Then I know,” she said, “I will give them to the 
sweeper woman; none of the people like her very 
well. I think she is the ‘least.’ ” 

A “Thank you” went up to the Father that even 
this poor, ignorant old woman understood. 

The youngest missionary once said that some of 
the sweet surprises that blossomed by the way seemed 
to her to be flowers from seed the sister who was “ab¬ 
sent” had planted. In the village where she had gone 
most often a school was started, and to those in the 
mission it was always a memorial of the absent one. 

The old pilgrim never came back. Very probably 
she died in her attempt to reach the Himalayan 
shrine. Neither did the young wife who went to find 
her husband ever return. They are among India’s 
unfound ^on^ Every year strangers die by the 




56 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


Ganges, and in the crowded places of pilgrimage, but 
the great, longing multitudes surge on—India’s mil¬ 
lions! And what will change India? Not our inven¬ 
tions, for side by side with the newspaper stands in 
the railway stations is another, where idols and the 
paraphernalia of worship are for sale. The locomo¬ 
tive engines bear thousands and tens of thousands of 
pilgrims to Baidynath, Jagannath, Allahabad and 
Benares, where the travelers bow down to idols of 
wood and stone and brass. The telegraph bears mes¬ 
sages by its current that are strange to Christian civ¬ 
ilization. A man with poojah (worship marks) in his 
forehead, even “the mark of the beast,” may take 
from his pocket a Waterbury watch to see if it is do 
pahar (the second watch, or noon). India’s kings 
will yet be using, if they do not already, the automo¬ 
bile to expedite their pilgrimages to inland and re¬ 
mote shrines. Something within must work the 
change without. Better to give them belief in the 
Bible than the training of the civil engineer. When 
once they are true Christians, other learning must 
come naturally. They will want to be, and do, and 
know. The impulse, the power will be there and it 
will go on when the hands that wrought through it 
are folded and cold. 

Our day is short. Our time here, “a little while.” 
We can not reach out the helping hand very much 
longer, and the millions by the wayside do not wait. 
See them passing by. The coolie with the dulled face. 
The leper with “the image” almost lost. The widow 
with scarred body. The frightened little orphan child. 
The naked “holy man.” The priest with his poojah 
marks. The burden bearers with loads upon their 



BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA, 


57 


heads. The haughty Brahmin with his scroll. The 
out-caste hastening from the beaten footpath lest his 
shadow offend. The beggar who cries in every public 
place. The dancing woman with unholy glance. The 
aged man or woman with hopeless eyes. The sepoy 
in his regimentals. The Mohammedan official in Eng¬ 
lish garments, with the exception of his great turban. 
The fakir of the same class in his yellow robe. The 
representatives of many divisions and sub-divisions 
of caste. See them pass by, and think how short is 
their time. Think of villages once swarming with 
life, now but a sepulcher from plague and famine. 
Shall we wait? 

The Transforming Message is ours, the education 
is ours, the riches are ours, and the patient working 
together in systematic giving will bring victory. To 
lie down at night knowing that we have sent a por¬ 
tion of ourselves and of our effort to take the Gospel 
of Light, Life and Love to dark, neglected corners, 
must make our rest sweeter, our awakening more 
joyous, and our hope more real. 

Sisters, “bodies are poor things.” They fail be¬ 
neath the tropical sun. They fail in the dear land of 
homes. We need to hasten before the soul escapes, 
before our “little while” is merged into His eternity, 
and before their “little while” flickers out in awful 
fear and doubt. 

Ah, while we wait 

Sad millions pass into the night. 

We can not hear the children cry 
When ours are laughing in the light! 

And so we wait 

While all the wretched, weary years 
The out-caste trembles by unyielding gates 




58 


BY WAYSIDES IN INDIA. 


The victim of a thousand fears. 

And still we wait— 

And still the hopeless, close sad eyes; 

The mothers are not comforted 

For days and nights are rent with cries! 

And shall we wait 

Until the last soul hurries out 

To darkness and long-dreaded death, 

Tormented by ancestral doubt? 

Ah, can we wait 

And find sweet resting when our day is done 
And know those sighing millions go 
Without one hope at set of sun? 



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OCT 16 1902 







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